


It's Okay (It's Really Not)

by MS_Mayhem



Series: It Will Be Okay (It Really Is) [1]
Category: Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Castaway Depots, Fever, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Injury Recovery, Love Confessions, M/M, Medical Inaccuracies, Mentions of Coups - Freeform, Near Death Experiences, implied nightmares, questionable medical procedures
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-12 01:00:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29001858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MS_Mayhem/pseuds/MS_Mayhem
Summary: Four years after Yassen's death, Alex is sent on a mission to Cartagena, to investigate a heist on a military base, and find evidence to link the self proclaimed "Coronel" -- a fascist with a dishonorable discharge from the military under his belt -- to the heist. Things are okay. Until they're not.
Relationships: Yassen Gregorovich & Alex Rider, Yassen Gregorovich/Alex Rider
Series: It Will Be Okay (It Really Is) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2134416
Comments: 14
Kudos: 38





	1. The Fortress

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction using character from the Alex Rider series, which belongs to Anthony Horowitz. I do not claim ownership over the characters or the world of Alex Rider.  
> Disclaimer 2 : No harm is meant to Spain, the city of Cartagena, or the spanish military, and their security protocols, as well as the spanish police.*
> 
> This is my first time ever writing fanfiction, and english is not my first language. Please point out any glaring mistakes.  
> Otherwise, enjoy.
> 
> *Harm is meant to the Guardia Civil, I said what I said.

His latest mission had brought Alex to Cartagena, as he followed the treks of Francisco Ferrandis. Ferrandis was a military man, a commanding officer, up to his dishonorable discharge, that he saw as a personal slight, and has since hatched a plan to take over Spain, starting with the military. 

Ferrandis had been born into a wealthy military family, well-connected, and powerful. He had risen through the ranks quickly, an excellent soldier, a genius tactician, and an inspiring commander. However, Ferrandis had a penchant for violence and cruelty, and cared little for the laws of the Geneva Conventions. His war-crimes were covered up, and met with merely the discharge from the military, leaving Ferrandis a free man, and a vengeful one at that.

Now, there had been a large heist on the Arsenal de Cartagena, and MI6 suspected that it had something to do with Ferrandis. 

Alex had been sent to infiltrate his mansion -- which was really a fortress -- and find evidence linking him to the heist, as well as disable the military force Ferrandis had acquired. 

Of course, there were problems. Firstly, the fortress was on a small island off the coast of Cartagena, well fortified and only reachable by helicopter or boat. There was a single jetty, carved into the steep cliffs, and heavily guarded. Getting close by boat was difficult, rocks rose out of the ocean, and the waves crashed against them heavily, making the approach by swimming or diving dangerous, if not deadly. The helicopter pad was on a particularly high cliff, the only one that wasn’t fenced. It was well guarded though.

The second problem was the support that Ferrandis had. He had not only his private army, but also support from a few high ranking members of the military -- old-fashioned, and friends of the Ferrandis family -- as well as a large portion of Spain’s fascist police, the Guardia Civil, under his thumb. They called him the ‘Coronel’, spanish for colonel. 

Still, Alex had made it onto the island. He had gotten a ride from an MI6 contact on a RIB, just far enough to get to a reasonable diving spot, and, equipped with scuba gear and a black Cayago Seabob F5, made the dive over to the island. While he could swim over on his own, the Seabob meant he had to exert less energy on the swim there and back, something he was grateful for. 

Alex had stashed the Seabob and the scuba gear in a small cache, hidden in the rocks off one of the tiny islets around Ferrandis’ fortress. It had been night by the time he arrived, waiting out the crashing waves and climbing the cliffs carefully, the black wetsuit -- specially designed by Smithers for extra insulation, as well as a resistance to bullets, helping him blend into the shadows of the dark cliffs. 

The fence was electrified, but Alex was equipped with both wire-cutting pliers and a screwdriver, as well as a small device Smithers had given him once, and found one of the circuit boxes, disrupting the flow of electricity with the device, cutting the bottom of the fence, and shimmying underneath, it was a tight fit, even with his slim build. Alex had thought about bulking up, but situations like this reminded him of why being small was an advantage. He had chosen his spot well, as he came out in some dried up shrubs that concealed the place he had cut. Not that anyone would look that low. 

Alex heard the current return to the fence, the device had worked. Good. If the fence lost its electricity, Ferrandis’ men might have gotten suspicious. 

Getting into the actual building was difficult, but not impossible, and Alex had managed to slip in unseen. He had gathered the proof he needed, as well as the plans of a coup, to be staged in four months, and was on his way out, deciding to forgo the destruction, knowing it would draw unwanted attention, when he was caught. 

Four years ago, Alex would have let a submachine gun to his back stop him. Today, Alex did not. He took the guard out with a few well-placed hits, but the guard had managed to hit a panic button concealed in his uniform, turning on the alarm. Soon, the entire place would be swarming with guards. 

But the guards would check the spot he was first. Alex ran outside, hiding in the shadows. He made it across undetected, quickly knocking out the guards at the helipad, planning on stealing the helicopter. 

“Hello Alex.”

The voice made him spin around, shock clear on his face. Yassen stood next to the pad, leaning casually against the side of the helicopter, half hidden in its shadow, long legs crossed, and hands tucked into the pocket of his black jeans.

“Y-you.” Alex stammered. “You’re dead.”

“Obviously not.” Yassen’s voice was flat and cool as ever, no emotion detectable, like he was merely speaking facts.

“I _saw_ you die!” Alex’ voice rose, he was frustrated. 

Yassen shrugged, then lifted his right hand from his pocket, laying his palm flat towards the sky. He looked bored. “Hand it over, Alex.”

Right. The mission.

“Never.” He crossed his arms. “What are you doing, working for Ferrandis, anyway?”

“He pays me.” Yassen took a step towards him, hand still outstretched. Alex backed up, scowling. Yassen sighed.

“Don’t make me take it by force.” _It_ was a small waterproof flash drive, with the proof Alex needed. 

“What are you going to do? _Shoot me?_ ” Alex was bitter and angry. “Remember, you can’t kill me, you said so yourself. When you were _dying._ ” 

Yassen’s mouth twitched in an odd sort of smile. 

“I’m not going to kill you Alex, merely,” he paused, as if thinking, “incapacitate you.”

Then, suddenly, Yassen was here, close to Alex, and striking out. Alex barely had time to block the blow, the force of it still sent him stumbling back. Yassen was on him, swiping Alex’ legs out from underneath him, making him crash down onto his back. Quickly, Alex rolled out to the side, just as Yassen was about to pounce on him. Alex kicked out, a dirty move, catching Yassen on the side of the knee. Of course, Yassen moved away, but Alex had still caught his knee. 

Yassen took a few steps back, nodding with approval. Alex was back on his feet, light footed and ready to strike, dodge, or block.

They fought, Alex mostly taking the defensive, but getting more aggressive in his blows the longer they fought. Every decision or move that Alex got right, got him a nod of approval, and once -- after Alex fluidly blocked a strike, guiding it to his side, and punching Yassen into his now exposed side -- even a small “good job”, as if they were training, as opposed to fighting on a cliff, sitting high over the ocean. 

When Alex missed, or miscalculated, Yassen hesitated, giving Alex enough time to right his errors. Their fight had brought them closer to the edge, and Alex was getting sick of the game Yassen was playing. 

Yassen punched, Alex dodged below his arm, twisting around, and sent his elbow towards Yassen’s solar plexus. But Yassen easily sidestepped the blow, and the force with which Alex had thrown it, sent him off-balance, moving over the edge. He had a foot on the building, but his body was canted forward, and he would fall. 

He looked on -- terrified -- as the ground disappeared below him, giving away into the powerful waves crashing against sharp rocks. He cried out, his mind racing over the pain the impact would cause. 

And suddenly, within seconds, there was something at his waist. A hand, with long, pale fingers, and neatly manicured nails. Yassen had caught him, and was then hoisting him further onto the roof, his other hand grabbing the front of his wetsuit, holding him up. 

“You didn’t really think I would let you fall?” Yassen smiled softly. Alex stared at him, the cold blue eyes twinkling with amusement. Truth be told, Alex had expected to fall. He had no reason to save him. Not again. Not after the first time (was it even the first one?) had gotten him shot in the heart. But still, Yassen held him securely, even if Alex was still dangling over the edge.

Alex swallowed, and was about to reply, when a shot rang out. 

The bullet had come from a handgun, a Heckler & Koch USP, held by a guard, who had come down onto the helicopter pad. The bullet had gone through Yassen’s shoulder, whizzing past Alex’ shocked face. Blood was already starting to flow, staining the plain white button up Yassen was wearing. 

The force of the impact sent them both forward, over the edge, and plunging down towards the ocean. Panicked, Alex had reached forward, managing to hang onto a protruding rock, and caught Yassen by the hand. 

“It’s okay, Alex.” Yassen looked at him fondly, softly, so full of love. 

Then, he let go.


	2. It's Always Gotta Be Cliffs

Alex cried out as he watched Yassen fall, his body disappearing into the heavy waves. Alex could feel tears burning in his eyes, blurring his vision. He heard commotion, the guards getting closer to the edge. 

They would shoot him, if they found him clinging onto the cliff. He would die if he fell. It was an impossible decision to make. Let go, or hang on.

Ultimately, he did not get the chance to make a decision, as the rock he was gripping came loose, and sent him falling. He screamed, until the breath was knocked out of his lungs as he made impact with the ocean.

Alex had barely made it to the surface, gasping in a desperate breath of air, when a wave crashed over his head, pulling him back under and towards a rock. He folded his hands over his head, letting them take the impact.

He had to get away from the rocks. Alex was about to pull away from the rocks, and fight his way towards land, when he noticed a hand sticking up. 

Yassen. 

Alex’ blood ran cold, and he swam over, guiding himself along the rocks, gripping them tightly. 

Yassen was half submerged in water. He was unconscious, the blood mixing with the water. He lay face down on the rocks, his hands scratched up, as if he had tried to pull himself out of the water and onto the rocks, before passing out. Alex shook Yassen, trying to wake him. Yassen did not move. 

Angrily, Alex wiped a tear that ran down his cheek, and checked Yassen’s pulse with shaking hands. His heart was beating, but barely. Alex had to get Yassen out of there. 

Getting out of the stream on his own was difficult. Doing so with the dead weight of Yassen would be next to impossible. 

Still, Alex did not want to risk getting caught, or worse yet, getting Yassen caught, on his way to the cache. They had already spent too much time out in the open, and the guards were bound to find soon that they were still alive. 

Alex could do this. He could drag Yassen back to the mainland, and he would live, and they would both be fine. 

First, Alex removed any excess weight. He stripped off Yassen’s shoes and socks, and, after a brief debate, knew that his pants would have to go. Denim was heavy. Wet denim was even heavier.

Alex felt awkward, as he turned over Yassen, and undid his belt, followed by the fastenings on his jeans. Alex felt even more awkward as he stripped them off, throwing both the jeans and shoes into the ocean. 

Alex’ belt was also heavy, but he was hesitant to ditch the tools. They might come in handy. 

Yassen’s weak, rattling breath, made his decision for him, and Alex threw his tools into the ocean. 

Alex pulled Yassen off the rocks slowly, and into the ocean. Alex had his arms around his chest, one of his hands resting gently on Yassen’s jaw, to keep his head elevated, and swam backwards, timing his strokes with the waved to conserve as much energy as possible. 

It took an hour, and by the time Alex was pulling Yassen onto the sand of a small beach, Alex was close to passing out. Alex was laying in the sand, panting, but the surf came up to his legs, and he knew he had to get Yassen further up. Alex stood up, and dragged Yassen further up the beach, leaving a trail of blood in the sand. 

The blood. Alex had to stop the bleeding. Alex looked around desperately. A hospital was no option. If the authorities found Yassen, they would interrogate him, and most likely torture him to death. 

Then, he found it. Built into the cliff-side of the beach, up a small staircase made of rock was a door. It was wooden, and covered in chipping green paint. 

Alex had heard about Castaway depot’s once. He was not sure where, but he guessed it was something Tom had talked about. 

Every muscle in Alex’ body was aching, he was out of breath, and dizzy with exertion. But inside the shelter were supplies. He had to get Yassen up there.

Alex gave himself a moment to breathe, to gather himself, before lifting Yassen onto his shoulders, in an approximation of a fireman’s lift. 

Alex stumbled up the rocky steps, and opened the door. It had a bolt on the inside, but no external lock. 

The castaway depot was small, containing a table with four chairs, a row of hooks by the door, a shelf (empty save for three camping lanterns), a broom leaning against the shelf, a cot, four buckets stacked into each other, and three metal drums. They were labelled in spanish and in english.

The first one was labelled  _ Food & Water, _ the second one read  _ Clothing & Blankets _ , and the third was marked  _ Misc. Supplies. _

Alex deposited Yassen on the floor next to the cot (he was sandy), and opened the third drum. The first thing in the drum was a large first aid kit. Perfect.

He laid it down next to the cot, and began to strip Yassen’s shirt off, ripping off buttons. Alex froze as he saw the scar running down the length of Yassen’s chest, a straight silvery-pale line, running from his collar bone to the end of his sternum, with two smaller scars underneath. 

Alex ghosted his fingers over the scar, then pulled himself out of his trance, and set to work on Yassen’s shoulder. 

It was covered in sand. 

Alex let out a small curse, but remembered the buckets. He grabbed one. It was labelled  _ Feces _ . Alex scrunched up his face and threw it to the side. The next bucket was labelled  _ Personal Washing _ .

Perfect. 

Alex grabbed the bucket and raced downstairs, filling it with water from the ocean, and made his way back up. He grabbed a rag from the second drum, and got to work, flushing and cleaning Yassen’s wound, before disinfecting it. It kept bleeding. 

Alex knew that he would bleed out, if he didn’t close up the wound. But the bullet had completely through the muscle, and Alex was scared he would bleed out internally, if he merely stitched it up. 

He had read about cauterization, in one of the medical care courses the MI6 had put him through. Alex wished he had paid more attention.

Alex went back to the third drum, producing a package of matches. They would not be enough. Then, he found the trangia stove. He set it up, pouring the supplied lighter fluid into the little cup, and lighting the stove up. 

His next problem was the tool. He still had his knife, but it was large and serrated on one side and sharp -- it would do more harm than good. 

He went back over to the third barrel, and rifled quickly through its contents, until he found a cloth pouch. Inside, there was metallic rattling. Alex hastily opened the drawstring, and pulled out a small tea spoon. It was metal, with a slim, pointed handle. It was perfect -- or at least, as close to perfect as Alex would get, considering the circumstances. 

He wiped down the spoon with disinfectant, and used a rag to make a handle. He heated the end of the spoon up, it was not long enough to reach through completely, meaning he would have to do cauterize from both sides. 

When the hot metal touched the inside of the wound for the first time, Yassen screamed, shocked into consciousness. Yassen settled almost immediately, and stopped struggling, but let out pained sounds when Alex brought the spoon handle back down.

Alex worked in short bursts, only lasting about three seconds, to prevent too much damage to healthy tissue. 

Now he had to close the wound from the back. 

Alex shifted Yassen up, leaning the man’s weight against him, for ease of access. Alex heated the spoon again, and went back to work, one of his hands supporting Yassen’s weight, and keeping the still delirious man balanced, the other one closing up the wound. Yassen’s pained noises were muffled against Alex’ shoulder.

The entire procedure lasted only about a minute. It had felt like hours though. By the time Alex was reaching for the antiseptic cream and gauze, Yassen had fallen asleep again.

Asleep sounded nicer than unconscious, Alex decided, as he applied the ointment, before pressing the square of sterile gauze down, fasting it with medical tape. 

Then Alex got started on Yassen’s other wounds, disinfecting and patching them up. His hands and forearms were torn up, as were his shins and knees. There was another series of short gashes on his cheek. 

Once Alex was happy with the medical aid, he hefted Yassen up once again, arms around his chest, brushing off the last remaining bits of sand, and deposited him on the cot, before covering Yassen with one of the woolen blankets, and walking over to the first barrel.

He grabbed a water bottle and drained it. He grabbed a second one and placed it next to Yassen. 

Lastly, Alex double-checked the bolt (it was locked) and wedged one of the metal chairs under the door, angled, for some extra resistance. Not that it would do any good against the machine guns and hand grenades that Ferrandis had. 

Alex barely managed to stumble the few steps towards the cot, and let himself fall onto the floor, before passing out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't try this at home, please!  
> Also I know Castaway Depots are mainly on the Islands near New Zealand, but I saw one in Spain once.


	3. Safe (For Now)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah this whole thing was supposed to be like 2 chapters. oops

Alex was woken up by a pained groan. 

Yassen.

Alex sat up so fast that his head spun, and his muscles ached in protest as he got up onto his knees, shuffling closer to the cot. 

Yassen was awake, his head canted to the side so he could look at Alex through half-closed eyes. Even through the long pale eyelashes, Alex could see that they were glassy. 

“Hey.” Alex greeted softly, picking up the water bottle, and twisting the cap. There was a satisfying  _ click _ as the seal was unlocked. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m okay.” The words were slow. Pained. As Yassen shifted to sit up, the blanket fell, revealing the bruises covering his chest, Alex knew why. Alex had dismissed the redness earlier, but the bruises took a few hours to fully form.

Gently, Alex put a hand behind Yassen’s back, supporting him as he brought up the plastic bottle.

“Drink this.” Alex pushed. Yassen obeyed, taking slow sips. After he finished half the bottle, Yassen turned his head away, signalling he was done. 

Alex set the bottle down, and helped Yassen lay back down, before twisting the bottle-cap back shut, but keeping it loose for ease of access. 

“Where are we?” Yassen’s voice was raspy, his accent thicker than usual. Not that it was very thick to begin with. Alex found he liked it. He would have liked it better if Yassen was not at death’s door though. 

“Mainland. A castaway depot.”

Yassen nodded, his eyelids drooping. 

Alex thought he had fallen back asleep. His eyes were closed, and his form was still. 

“You should have left me there.”

Alex stared at him, offended.

“What? No!” Alex stood up, crossed his arms. They hurt. 

Yassen gave no further response. Alex walked over to the drums, and unloaded them, stacking the items into the empty shelf.

The first held bottled water, canned foods and fruits, tea, coffee, a bottle of rum, and crackers. The second had four sets of clothing, all of them identical, with a white t-shirt, a dark blue knitted sweater, and grey wool pants. The sets were neatly folded, held together with twine. Below the sets were underwear and woolen socks, four waterproof jackets, and four pairs of rain boots. As well as three more woolen blankets, a couple of rags and washcloths, as well as three towels. 

The third drum was more interesting. Apart from the first aid kit, matches, lighter fluid, and trangia stove, it contained a notebook with two pencils, a pen knife, the cutlery bag, plates and mugs, two 54-card decks, nylon rope, a ball of twine, a clothesline to be attached to two hooks on opposite walls of the room, an axe, soap, toothbrushes and toothpaste, three flashlights, a drybag, and a rope ladder. 

The beach they had stumbled upon was essentially inaccessible by land, with steep cliffs looming over the crest of sand. That’s what the rope ladder was for, Alex guessed. Why they did not simply fasten one down the cliff in the first place was beyond him.

It was probably to deter tourists from climbing down onto the beach. Not that it was a very pretty beach to begin with. The sand was rough, and the ocean full of algae, that had been carried onto the beach, and left to rot in the mediterranean sun. 

Alex stripped down, and changed into one of the sets of clothing, but forewent the sweater. 

Next, he spread the lanterns out through the small room. One on the small table opposite the bed, one on the shelf, and one he brought to the bed, picking up a set of clothes, and a packet of crackers on the way.

Wordlessly, Yassen let Alex help him change into the trousers, his compliance a silent apology. Alex opened the packet of crackers, and sat down on the floor next to the cot, handing Yassen a cracker. 

Yassen took it, chewed slowly, and swallowed. He took the second cracker that Alex handed him. Only then, did Alex eat one too. 

The crackers came in small packets, so there were no leftovers to go stale, and Alex threw the wrapper away into one of the buckets, the one he had designated the bin. He got the first aid kid, and sat down next to Yassen once more. 

Alex produced a packet of ibuprofen from the case, as well as some fresh gauze, disinfectant, and the antibacterial ointment. 

He popped three pills out of the blister pack, each with a dosage of 200mg, and cupped them in his hand, opening the water bottle, and offering both to Yassen, who protested that he did not need them. A sharp look from Alex had him taking the medication. 

Alex helped Yassen to another few sips of water, finishing the bottle. Alex left it by the bed, in case Yassen had to relieve himself. 

“How bad is it?” Yassen asked, laying down and staring up at the concrete ceiling of the depot. 

It took Alex a second to realise what Yassen was talking about. The wound in his shoulder. Alex immediately dismissed the idea of lying. Of acting like everything was okay. It was not. 

“I don’t know.” He mumbled apologetically, shame making the tips of his ears burn, as he moved closer, and removed the gauze from Yassen’s chest as gently as he could.

In the cold LED light of the lantern, Alex could see the damage better. He shuddered. There were angry blisters where the hole once was. Alex didn’t know which was worse.

“I cauterized it last night. I-” Alex trailed off, looking at Yassen with wide, unsure eyes. “I didn’t know what to do, you were bleeding so much.”

“You did the right thing. The bleeding had to be stopped.” Yassen smiled at him. Raising his right hand out to Alex, who shuffled closer, still on his knees. Yassen ran his fingers through Alex’ hair. Briefly, Yassen paused his soft petting. “What did you use?”

“A spoon handle.” Alex looked up through the hair hanging over his eyes.

Yassen let out an amused little huff, and continued the movements of his fingers. “You were always a very creative boy, Alex.”

Alex enjoyed the soft motions for a while longer, before he tilted his head up, his confidence restored at Yassen’s praise. Not that Alex would ever admit that. Not that he would need to, with how well Yassen could read him. 

Alex cleaned the wound, applied some more ointment, and reapplied a square of gauze. He sat Yassen back up against his shoulder, and mirrored his procedure on the back. 

Yassen tried to be as much help as possible. Which was not very much help at all right now, at least not physically. 

“Alex. I need a sling. I can do without one, but it will make healing more difficult.” 

Immediately, Alex was up, finding one in the first aid kit, and tying it around Yassen's chest and arm, so that the injured arm was bent at a ninety degree angle at the elbow without strain. 

Yassen nodded in approval, and lay back down. Alex picked up one of the thick sweaters, still folded neatly, and lifted Yassen’s head up, placing the makeshift pillow underneath. 

Yassen looked exhausted, his eyes were closed again. Alex turned off the harsh light of the lantern next to him, and stood up to leave. 

A hand caught his, and Alex looked back. Yassen was looking at him with glassy eyes. 

“Thank you, Alex.” He whispered, his hand falling away as he fell asleep. 

Alex stared at the man for a moment, then turned and got to work on cleaning their shelter. He swept the sand off the wooden floorboards, opening the door to sweep the sand over the edge of the cliff. The sun was setting outside, they had slept through most of the day. Then, he set up the washline and hung up his wetsuit and swim shorts, before building himself a small bed out of the remaining blankets.

Alex was tired. The morning had taken a lot out of him. The fight (if he could even really call it that) with Yassen, hanging off a cliffside, the drop into the water, that had turned hard from the distance at which Alex had fallen into it. 

Yassen had it worse, of course, a bullet through his shoulder, but Alex was bruised and battered. His legs were a dark shade of purple, and it hurt to move. His muscles were sore and his limbs felt like jelly. He felt like he was swaying when he stood still, and his head was pounding with a headache. 

Now that he was out of immediate danger, and Yassen seemed to be doing at least a smidge better (he had woken up, that counted for something), he felt the exhaustion. It was odd, how your body would keep going, and push itself beyond its limits when under duress, but as soon as the stressor was gone it would shut down.

Alex drained another water bottle, he knew he was dehydrated, and placed another full on next to the cot. Then, Alex curled up in his makeshift bed, and slipped away into the warm embrace of sleep. 


	4. It Gets Worse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im sorry

When Alex woke up the next morning, the first thing he did was check on Yassen. 

Alex touched his fingers to the man’s neck, right over the thin scar, a mark left by Alex’ own father. Yassen’s jugular vein fluttered in steady paces, as his heart pumped blood through his body. Yassen’s pulse was slower than that of Alex. It came to no surprise. Yassen kept himself in good shape, and he was always such a steady and calculated person, that Alex would be more surprised if Yassen had a fast pulse. When Alex had first seen Yassen, four long years ago, he was not quite sure he would even have a pulse in the first place. 

Yassen was breathing, he had made it through the night. Still, he was pale -- or well, paler than usual. He looked ghost-like, terrifyingly still as he slept. Alex had to force himself to remove his fingers from the reassuring vein. 

Yassen was alive. He would continue being alive. Everything would be okay. 

Alex could not quite convince himself. 

The trangia stove was still half set up, and Alex lit the flame, placing a pot on top. Into the pot, he dumped a can of beans. 

It was not a luxurious meal, but Yassen would need the iron, copper, and folic acid, to stimulate the production of red blood cells. Alex remembered learning about this during a grueling long weekend, in which he had to make up for essentially the entire last term of biology when he was sixteen. 

Alex filled a smaller portion of beans into an extra bowl, and grabbed two spoons. He pulled over one of the chairs, and put it next to the cot to be used as a bedside table. 

He placed the cooking bowl on the seat of the chair, the spoon already leaning in the bowl, and shook Yassen awake.

Yassen had begun to sweat, and startled awake, before settling down, taking a few weak breaths. 

“Eat.” Alex directed, and Yassen followed the order without complaint.    
  


His motions were slow, and Alex could see the struggle as Yassen lifted the spoon up to his mouth. 

Alex did not offer the man help. Yassen was already vulnerable, and most likely left out of his element, Alex did not want to offend him.

Instead, Alex ate his own beans, and set down the bowl when he was done, already opening the water bottle and popping three more ibuprofen pills out of the blister pack.

Once Yassen was finished with his food, Alex helped him take the medication, and drink some water, before the russian fell back asleep. 

Alex was perched on the rocks doorstep, as he cleaned the dishes, pouring the dirty water out over the cliffside. He sat there for a moment, hands still wet, basking in the mediterranean sun, and taking in the salty air. Then, he headed back inside.

Alex had only spent about ten minutes outside their little shelter, but in those ten minutes, Yassen had gotten worse. 

He was sweating more, shivering under his blanket. Alex rushed over, laid a hand onto his forehead. He was burning up. Alex swore under his breath, and checked through the first aid kit. 

He just had the ibuprofen, and two syringes of antihistamines. Alex did not know if antihistamines would help. He doubted it, and he did not want to try his luck. Worst of all, Alex didn't even know how high Yassen’s temperature was. He had no thermometer, and nothing that could be converted into one. 

When Alex checked on the burnt up bullet hole that night, he found infection. Alex felt like he could cry. Yassen would die in a seaside shelter, and it would all be Alex’ fault. 

Alex did his best, cleaning the wound, and applying the ointment, and making sure the gauze covered everything.

The next three days went by tensely. Yassen kept getting worse, and Alex’ panic kept rising. He fed the man the best he could, but by the second day of his fever, he was too weak to even lift his head more than a couple of centimeters, and Alex had to spoon feed him beans or corned beef, and the occasional canned vegetable. Water was taken in small regular sips, and they were running out of ibuprofen. 

At night, Alex fell asleep exhausted, only to wake up a few hours later to check on Yassen again, only for the man to have gotten sicker again. 

Yassen had moments of relative lucidity. Mostly though, he was gone. 

Occasionally, he would mumble in his sleep, names and places. Some of them Alex recognised. Most he did not. Sometimes Yassen would thrash weakly in his sleep as he was plagued by nightmares. 

Once, he tried to wake Yassen, only to be met with a hand around his throat, squeezing with deadly intent. Alex had begged and pulled and shaken Yassen, until the fog had cleared enough from Yassen’s mind to recognise where he was, and who’s neck he was grasping so tight. Yassen had apologised repeatedly, tears running down his pale cheeks, mixing with the sickly sheen of sweat. It was heart wrenching, and Yassen only stopped his apologies once Alex had soothed and shushed him back to sleep, after feeding the man a few more paced sips of water. 

After that, Alex sat on the floor, in his own bed, a hand on his burning throat. Yassen was too dazed to realise how raspy Alex’ voice had been, words painful and choked out. Alex was glad for that. 

Alex knew that if Yassen had not been weakened by his injuries, he would be dead now. Yassen’s grip was strong, but normally it would have been stronger. Alex looked back at the cot, and once he was sure that Yassen was asleep, he let his own tears slip silently down his face. 

Alex was quiet the rest of the day. He did not wake up Yassen from his dreams after that, even if the trashing and distressed mumbling broke Alex’ heart. 

On the fourth morning, Yassen could not keep his food down. His temperature seemed to have risen again. He was sweating profusely, shivering in one moment, and kicking his blankets down the next. The few times that Yassen opened his eyes, they were glassy and the man seemed absent. 

Alex had enough.

“I’m going into town.” He stated.

“No, Alex.” Yassen was more present than he had been all day. Of course, Alex had chosen this precise moment to bring up his departure. 

“You need proper medicine. You’re dying!” It hurt Alex to say, but it was the truth. With the way things were going, Yassen would die.

“You can’t. It’s not,” Yassen swallowed, his mind fuzzy with fever as he searched for words with difficulty. “It’s not safe. Ferrandis.”

Alex shook his head. “No. They think we’re dead. And the coup, it is not for another four months.”

“Alex,” Yassen trailed off, before finding his words again. “He moved the plan up. The heist, it--”

Yassen took a couple of weak, rattling breaths, before he continued, his train of thought half derailed.

“He will have taken Cartagena already. You can’t go.”

Yassen looked exhausted, unmoving, save for the shallow breaths and the subtle movement of his lips, the slow blinking of half-closed eyes. The man looked like a wax-figure, his skin a deadly shade of grey, shining with sweat. 

“If I don’t go, you will die!” Alex raised his voice, not meaning to.

“If you go,” Yassen spoke slowly, but he was sure of his words now, “you will get shot, and we will both be dead.”

“No! No! I am  _ not _ letting you die!” Alex cried out angrily, before adding, in a soft, cracking voice: “Not again.”

Yassen looked at him softly, worried. 

“Oh Alex--” He started. Alex knew where this was going, he cut Yassen off.

“No. I’m going. And you can’t stop me. Not in your condition.” Alex spoke with finality, his voice even again as he stared down the assassin.

Yassen smiled, a weak little thing. 

“I know.” He said fondly.


	5. Curfews and Crimes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> disclaimer: i do not condone stealing from pharmacies

Alex waited until nightfall to make the trip into town. He would scale the cliff in the last beams of the setting sun, and use the cover of night to evade Ferrandis’ men.

Alex had never broken into a pharmacy before. But enough people did so frequently enough for pharmacies to be secured well during the night. Not that their security would matter much. Alex had gotten into some of the most secure places in the world.

Alex put on his (since de-sanded) wetsuit. The bullet resistance and dark colour would come in handy, slipping on the diving boots and gloves as well. Alex put on one of the raincoats -- dark and hooded, and grabbed a rag big enough to be tied around his head. He would use it to hide his face. Alex strapped the diving knife to his thigh, and slung the drybag across his chest, before grabbing a flashlight. 

“Be careful, Alex.” 

His hand was already on the door handle, when Yassen spoke up. He had slept for most of the day.

“Always am.” Alex smiled, looking back at Yassen. 

Yassen snorted in amusement, and fell back asleep. 

Alex was out of the door before he could have second thoughts.

Alex had left two full bottles of water next to Yassen (seal cracked for ease of access), a pack of crackers, a bucket in case the man got sick again, and an empty water bottle in case he needed to relieve himself. Alex had also folded an extra blanket over the end of the bed, in case Yassen got cold. 

Alex descended the stairs that led to their shelter, there was a good spot to climb further down the beach. 

For the average boy, scaling the steep cliffside, with it’s sharp stone and uneven holds, would be difficult. For Alex, however, it was easy, and he reached the top in minutes, breath barely laboured. 

Alex took a moment to orientate himself. The island was south-south-west of the city, and Alex had swum north. If he headed north-east-east, he would find the city. Not that it was hard to miss, Cartagena was a large city.

It was a twenty minute walk from their little cliff-side hideout, to the city, and once again, Yassen had been right. The city was swarming with guards, joined by the spanish forces stationed in Cartagena, as well as the Guardia Civil.

The streets were empty, eerily so. Even in the middle of the night, cities usually had a few people walking around, the occasional car driving by. Instead, there were roadblocks and checkpoints set up. Guards patrolled the streets. Even the houses were mostly dark. Lights turned off, curtains and shutters drawn shut. 

Only days ago, Alex had been walking through the same city parts, and it had been hot and stuffy with the bustle of the city. 

Now, Cartagena seemed dead.

Alex stuck close to the houses, trying to blend into their shadows. He was quick and quiet, and he knew he would not have to go far.

A thing about Spain, that had always struck Alex as odd, was the fact that there was a pharmacy on just about every corner. All Alex had to do was find the nearest flashing green cross, break in undetected, get the right medication, and get out (once again, undetected).

Then he would nurse Yassen back to health, and the man would forever be in his debt and answer every question Alex ever had. Or, at least, something like that.

Alex had asked Yassen if he had allergies before he left. Yassen let out a completely indignant ‘no’, but with what medication Alex had to actually _get_ Yassen was practically no help, stiff half dazed with fever. 

Breaking in was not difficult, nor was deactivating the alarm. Alex shone the small flashlight through the farmacy, drybag open and hanging loosely off his shoulder for easy access. 

His priority was the prescription medication, kept in the back. Alex picked up a couple of different antibiotics, not sure which ones to get, as well as some probiotics. Those were the most important ones. 

Alex made his way through the farmacy, face covered and head down, loading things into the bag as he went.

Two oral thermometers, antiseptic ointment, antibiotic ointment, bandages, gauze, and tape, a variety of supplements, three tubes of anti-inflammatory muscle cream, and just about every packet of ibuprofen Alex could find. 

On his way out, he swiped a couple bags of candy, and closed the bag, slinging it back over his chest. 

Alex was slinking through the streets, taking small alleyways, and steering clear of the main roads, taking long loops around the military controls.

“ _Hey you!_ ” The man addressed Alex in spanish, his machine gun, with a shining flashlight attached, was pointed directly at Alex. “ _You’re out past curfew._ ”

A curfew. So that’s what happened. 

_“Sorry sir.”_ Alex replied, his spanish holding little trace of an accent. He did not dare turn around. The rag over his face was bound to raise suspicion, and without it he would be easily recognisable. “ _I’m on my way home now.”_

The guard was unsatisfied with the answer, and ordered Alex to turn around and come with him. Slowly, Alex turned. The guard was reaching for the radio on his shoulder, about to call in the incident.

Alex had to move fast. 

He sprung forward, and, before the guard even knew what hit him, Alex had disarmed him, knocking him out with a precise hit to the neck. 

Alex turned off the guard’s flashlight, and slung the machine gun over his own back. He also stole the man’s handgun, before hiding the body in a dumpster. 

Alex doubled his efforts to remain undetected, slipping quickly through the dark roads. But he had made a fatal mistake. The guards were to check in on regular intervals, and Salvador Menéndez, who was now lying in a dumpster, had missed his check-in. 

Sirens began to blare. 

Fuck. 

Alex ran. Speed was his best bet. The guards would comb the city inch by inch, most likely starting near the main port, where he was now. 

Predictably, the guards caught up to him soon enough, and Alex barely dodged the spray of bullets they sent his way, as he slid into another road. Still, one had nearly caught him, grazing his cheek. It was a problem for future Alex. 

The guards were a decent distance away, and Alex began to scale one of the buildings, using the details around the door to climb up, until he could use the wrought-iron balconies to help his ascent. Alex climbed five stories, before he found himself on the metal roof. 

Alex could hear the guards moving in on the street he had only just occupied, and ran. 

The block was made up of several buildings pressed together, to form essentially one big wall, that lined the sides of the roads. The buildings had different roofs, built in different shapes, sizes, and materials.

Alex made up for the shift in roof heights with easy vaults and jumps, but soon enough, he was running out of roof, as the block came to a stop over another street. 

But the road was narrow, and he could not afford getting caught by the guards. Alex made a split-second decision, and jumped.

Alex was up in the air, and had nearly made it to the other side, but he had not covered enough distance, and he was already beginning to fall. If he impacted with the cobbled road from this height, he would break several bones, and would be easy for the guards to find. 

But, in the last second, his fingers made contact with the edge of the ledge. He latched on.

He cried out in unexpected pain. In his haste to grab the ledge, his outstretched middle finger had crashed into the unforgiving concrete. 

Alex did not have time to stop though, now that his scream had alerted his pursuers to his position. Quickly, he pulled himself up onto the roof, and continued running. 

Still, they had latched onto his position, and bullets followed him. Alex shifted to the side of the roof further from the men. Alex considered jumping onto the parallel block, but the last jump had shaken him, and he doubted his hand could take another harsh impact. 

Alex was nearing the edge of the block, thankfully only a meter away from the next block, an easy jump. 

Alex heard it, before he saw it. A MBB BÖ-105, marked in the white and green of the Guardia Civil. The helicopter was headed towards him, a powerful searchlight bathing the building below it white. 

The helicopter would find him, up on the roof, and Alex would be more surprised if they _didn’t_ have a gunman aboard, waiting to shoot him down. On the ground, the guards would find him, now that they had locked down his area. 

Alex needed a miracle. Or a poorly thought out and incredibly risky plan. 

Alex jumped.

He dropped down two floors, before his hands closed around the railing of one of the balconies. As his body-weight was brought down, only anchored by his outstretched arms, it tugged painfully on his joints, and Alex could feel as he pulled his teres. Gritting his teeth through the pain, Alex pulled himself up and over onto the balcony. 

Luck was on his side. The balcony was small and well covered. Potted plants were placed along the railing. There were two wooden folding chairs tucked into the corner, a crate with an empty ashtray between them. Behind the chairs hung a beaded curtain, along the width of the balcony. 

Alex tucked between the plants and one of the chairs, curling up. He would have to wait out the curfew, then he could slip out, concealed by the civilians of Cartagena. 

Alex only hoped Yassen would make it through the night.


	6. The Uphill Battle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the last time i tore a capsule (ironically while climbing cliffs in spain) my finger swole to twice its size and turned black.  
> also i wanna hang on a trigger warning for some slight suicidal thoughts and self-hatred.

The curfew had been lifted at six-thirty in the morning, and Alex used the first wave of people heading to work to slip out unseen. Still, he steered clear of the patrols and checkpoints. 

Alex trekked back to the shelter, already dreading the climb down. He should have taken the rope ladder with him, but he did not want to signal that anyone was staying down by the depot.

The climb was predictably awful, his finger and shoulder screaming as he made his way down the cliff-side. Alex had taken the direct way, and dropped down onto the ledge. He opened the door, and stepped inside. 

Yassen was asleep. 

Alex slipped off his gloves, wincing as he jostled his finger, and checked Yassen’s pulse. He was alive. 

Alex felt his stomach untwist. 

Alex hung up the machine gun and raincoat, and left his boots by the door, before stripping out of his wetsuit. 

“If that’s what careful looks like, I would hate to see you when you’re not careful.” 

Yassen’s voice had startled Alex, and he spun around, the wetsuit bunched up around his waist.

“How are you feeling?” Alex moved over, bringing the bag. 

“I could ask you the same question.” Yassen deflected. “What happened?”

Alex sat down next to Yassen, and turned on the lamp. 

His middle finger was swollen at the second knuckle, and the skin had turned black with bruising. Alex prodded and moved his finger, and determined it was not broken. Alex fished the medical tape out of the first aid kit, and taped his middle finger to his ring finger, slightly bent in the hand’s natural position. He added an extra layer of tape for more support. 

“The city was locked down. I managed to escape, but it was a close call.” Alex shrugged. It hurt.

Yassen nodded, and Alex began to unpack the dry bag, stacking the several packets of antibiotics in front of Yassen, who watched with amusement.

“Take your pick.” Alex smiled, already unpacking one of the thermometers. 

Yassen looked over the brands and ingredients, and settled on one. Alex shoved the thermometer under Yassen’s tongue, and brought the unchosen antibiotics over to the shelf, stacking them in a pyramid. 

The thermometer beeped, and Yassen read out loud: “Thirty-nine point six.”

“Unideal.” Alex replied, and brought over a can of peaches, and another water bottle. 

Alex changed Yassen’s bandages, before making him eat the peaches and drain the water. Then, Alex handed him the antibiotics, probiotics, vitamins and minerals, and ibuprofen. His hand was filled with pills, and Yassen had to swallow every last one of them. He did so without complaint, taking them with the water that Alex supplied. 

Alex used the bottom of one of the pots as a mirror, cleaning and patching up the cut on his cheek. It was shallow, a straight line high on his cheekbone. If it healed well, it would look identical to Yassen’s. The scar that a grazing bullet brought on. 

Alex knew he was incredibly lucky. Had he been even a fraction of a second slower, he would most likely be dead now. 

During the next few days, they fell into an easy rhythm, Alex would cook and clean, dose out and administer the medicine (taking some ibuprofen for himself), clean their wounds, regularly take Yassen’s temperature, and try to control it with wet rags and blankets. Twice a day, Yassen would rub the muscle cream on Alex’ shoulder, to help with his strained muscle. 

The fever reached its peak at forty-one point three degrees. Yassen could not even lift his head, his breath was shallow, and his skin waxy. Alex did not leave Yassen’s side, unless it was to fetch water or wet rags.

Yassen was sleeping uneasily, his brow tensed into a frown. Alex had wrapped his calves in wet towels, and was dabbing a wet rag across the man’s forehead. In his sleep, Yassen let out little pained moans, and mumbled in russian. Alex wished he understood more than the occasional, accented “Alex”.

It scared Alex, seeing the man so weak. Yassen was not supposed to be weak. He was supposed to be strong and deadly and dangerous. 

Ten minutes later, Yassen was silent. Alex looked up from the tea he had been making, panicked. Sure, the fevered mumbling had tugged at Alex’ heartstrings, but the silence was worse.

Alex couldn’t even hear Yassen breathe over the pounding of his own heart. He pressed his fingers to the man’s neck, trying to find a pulse. It took him a second, but then, he felt the weak flutter against the tips of his fingers. It was too weak.

He shook Yassen, trying to wake him, trying to find any sign of life apart from the shallow breath and waning pulse. He found none.

“No. No, no, no. Come on Yassen. You have to wake up.” Alex shook desperately at Yassen’s shoulder. 

“I’ve got you. I’ve got you.” He pulled the man into his arms, kneeling on the floor, with tears brimming in his eyes. “Stay with me,  _ please _ .”

He dug his fingers into Yassen’s trapezius, desperately clutching on. “I’m not letting you die. You  _ can’t die.”  _

“There’s...nothing for me here.” Yassen’s voice was small and rough, “There’s no one left in the world who cares about me.”

“No! Don’t say that!” Alex couldn’t hold back the tears now, and they slipped down his cheeks. 

“It’s true.” Yassen had a sad sort of smile on his face, he sounded like he was trying to be reassuring. “I’m a killer. I killed your uncle. Why should anyone care about me? All I do is bring death and despair.”

Alex was frustrated, his face hot with tears and anger. 

“Don’t you get it? I love you.” He cried desperately, before repeating, in a scared whisper: “ _ I love you _ .”

“Alex.” Yassen looked at him, his eyes full of sorrow.

“I love you. So please,  _ please, _ don’t leave me. I can’t lose you, not again.”

Yassen raised a shaky hand, staring at Alex with glassy eyes, his pale lips pulled into a soft smile. Gently, he cupped his cheek, and Alex nuzzled into it, bringing up his own hand over Yassen’s.

Slowly, Yassen lifted himself up further, his neck muscles straining with disuse and sluggishness. He pressed his lips to Alex’. 

The kiss was sweet, short and chaste. 

“I love you too.” Their lips brushed as Yassen whispered his confession. 

Alex held onto Yassen, burying his face into the crook of his neck. Yassen rubbed his cheek over Alex’ head, and pressed a kiss to his temple, before settling down, his one good arm wrapped around Alex. 

It was going to be okay.


	7. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> its a short one, but, enjoy!

Yassen got better, after that. The antibiotics cleared up the infection, and they managed to get the fever down. But with his strength returning, Yassen got bored. For a man, who usually slept no longer than four hours, being bedridden was cruel and unusual punishment. 

They found the solution in the two decks of cards, and Yassen’s fixation on teaching Alex how to play  _ Durak _ . The game was complicated but Yassen was endlessly patient, and, after a few open decked rounds, and a whole lot of encouragement, Alex got the hang of it. Of course, Alex only won when Yassen let him, but it was fun nonetheless.

“Why did you work for Ferrandis?” Alex asked one night, while Yassen was massaging the muscle cream into his shoulder.

“I owed him. He brought me back from death, after the Air Force One.” Yassen finished up on Alex’ shoulder, and wiped down his own hands. 

“Fair enough.” Alex had shrugged, and Yassen pressed a kiss to his jaw.

They had talked about their relationship. Where they stood. Who they were to each other, and who they wanted to be to each other. It would be difficult, with Alex still working for the MI6, and Yassen a wanted criminal, presumed to be dead. Yassen wanted to retire, and while death gave him an excellent cover to do so, a close relationship with Alex would raise the alarms with the MI6. 

Ultimately, they decided they would cross that bridge when they got to it.

Another night, Yassen confessed that he had given up on himself. Had embraced death, because it would be easier than living in a world in which he thought nobody cared about him. Alex had listened, holding the man close. When Yassen was finished explaining, in slow, unsure words, Alex assured him that he did in fact love Yassen very much, and that he needed him. Yassen had thankfully believed him. 

Ferrandis’ coup was another issue that had to be addressed. Alex still had the evidence, but getting it to MI6 would be difficult. Alex left for a scouting mission, leaving Yassen with the machine gun, a cup of tea, and a kiss on the lips. 

It turned out that taking Cartagena first had been a mistake, the violent overthrow gave the Spanish government official reason to attack, and they managed to take Ferrandis down. No help had been needed from Alex, MI6, or the British government. But Alex had an inkling that if Yassen had still been with Ferrandis, Spain would now be under a fascist regime. 

Alex took credit for getting Yassen out of the way.

He did not yet make contact with MI6, instead, he picked up pastries from an artisanal bakery, with money he had nicked from a rich-looking frenchman, who was making a business call out on the plaza at the harbour, and headed back to their shelter. 

Yassen seemed almost giddy at the treats, and they sat together feeding each other the selection of sugary delicacies, kissing away bits of puff pastry that had ended up stuck to the corners of their mouths. 

Alex knew he had to call in soon, he had gone without contact for too long, and the MI6 was worried -- not about his safety, of course, but about if he had been compromised. 

Yassen distracted him with a kiss to the tip of his nose, and Alex dismissed the thought. He would make contact soon, but right now, he wanted to do nothing more than to kiss Yassen.

And so, Alex did just that. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i knew how to play durak for exactly one summer

**Author's Note:**

> so apart from assignments written for school, this was my first time sharing anything i wrote (and the first fan work i wrote), and i was pretty nervous, not gonna lie. thank you so much for your support and the kind comments!
> 
> (also i might post a continuation, thats basically just holiday fluff)


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